


The Ways I Died Before I Met You

by laviie



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Just in time for Mink's birthday!, M/M, Mink's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:02:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8143150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laviie/pseuds/laviie
Summary: Now you feel nothing, and this is all you needed.To finally feel nothing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A small fic I put together for someone special who requested it...  
> It follows Mink's route with some variations from the original path's events, I hope it's okay!  
> I also happened to finish it just in time for Mink's birthday, so happy birthday Mink!  
> I hope you like it, let me know what you think in the comments! ♡

_December_.  
You have been staring at your own palms for so long now the second you raise your head you feel uncomfortably dizzy, there's not much you can do to stop this feeling so you lower your face to the floor again in attempt to settle the spinning sensation behind your eyes.  
You collect your thoughts.  
You must have been sitting in the same cell you're in now for years. By now, you know each and every corner of each and every room you're allowed to step in and you know the face, name and last name of every dickhead you've crossed paths with since you arrived. You know what's going to be for lunch every day of the week by memory and it ends up being useful so you realize whether some days you're going to starve in advance. Your mattress is stone hard and you barely have any sleep anymore but you're used to this by now and even if in the beginning it was hard now it's not as difficult to pretend you're laying in your old family house's bed, under the handmade blankets your mother and grandmother knit for you surrounded by the warm wood walls of your bedroom.

It always is a shame to open your eyes and go back to face the painful reality: you're in a cold concrete room where thousands have been before you- people who _killed_ , _stole_ , _burnt_ , _destroyed_. They all were here. And for people like you, so different from them but in a same way just as guilty, no mercy is known and here you are, alone like you've been for years now, but lonely like you wouldn't believe one man could be.

 

* * *

  
  
_January_.  
It's the first time you step into a foreign country from your homeland, and there should be a mixed feeling of excitement and fear but there's nothing. You feel nothing.  
You glance at the sea birds getting carried by the wind above the island's small red rooftops, and as you get lost in the shaky silhouette of mountains way shorter and smaller than the ones you're used to, you wonder how such a beautiful place could birth a man whose ego was enough for him to feel in power to take life away from others. You remember his wrinkled face and his stupid accent the last day you saw him and now you feel something. You've never been good with words and maybe this is why, but there truly is no other term that can describe your feelings right now except for _hate_.  
A deep, burning hatred that's intoxicating your bloodstream and imploding in your brain. You believe people killed for feelings half as strong.

You walk virgin streets, looking still new from the seemingly absence of vehicles to stain or crack the asphalt, and with the small colorful buildings of houses and bars glooming over you, you pretend not to notice the strange looks many give you. You really do not put much thought on it- you don't justify it, but explain it with two obvious options: one, people on this island are not used to see people of your heritage and probably wonder where the hell you are from; two, you're _dressed_ like a jailer, _walk_ like a jailer, _look_ like a jailer. You _are_ a jailer, and probably it shows more than you'd want it to. You don't really care about them- you'd stay away from you if you were them, too- but the distract glances you give at the people around here and the realization of how well they're dressed and how whealthy some expecially look make you suddenly extremely aware of the rips in your jeans and the coat you've ripped apart.

 

* * *

 

 

You don't know where you're going to stay- you'd have the money to go stay in a nice hotel, but you really can't waste it on such a material bother- so you walk around for a few days without a destination and sleep around in the cheapest motels you find. It's out of pure luck you find yourself downtown in a crumbling, half-abandoned zone and realize you're standing in front of a building that doesn't look too good, but definitely looks like the least staggering pair of walls in miles. You walk inside- it's all covered in dust and there's a thick fog of smoke-, but everything looks about right: the walls stand up, the ceiling doesn't look in prossimity of falling within the next few years and there are doors separating each room, even if they're rusty and noisy. In the biggest room, the central one, there's a sofa looking kind of old: the leather's all ripped and most of the inside of foam is showing. You assume this place was once either a police station or an hospital.

  
The simple sight of a sofa makes you realize just _how_ tired you really are, so without thinking much about it you sit down and spread your arms across the back. It doesn't take much for a certain dizzy sleepiness to take over you, and even if you try and fight it you can't rebel against it. You click your tongue in nuisance and cross your arms, your head handing dangerously from your tired neck, and close your eyes, looking for some peace. But you know any peace you'll ever find will be temporary, and with this bitter acknowdlegde you drift into sleep.

You wake up shortly after and feel twice as tired as you were before, but by the time you realize it you're back walking around the building. There's a small room with heavy walls and an half-destroyed, unbalanced bed with a jail matress on it, some dusty shelves hanging from the wall like hanged prisoners. You sit on the bed, push on it with your hands and realize it isn't that bad, considered it probably has been here for years. You stand back up, walk into a narrow alleyway and enter a different, wider room with only a few rusty shower heads and a broken, stained pair of mirrors on the opposite wall. You realize just how long it has been since the last time you had a decent shower, and with that thought in mind, you glance towards the mirror and what you see makes you somewhat sad.

It's the same body you've always had- big and strong, with your thick bones and heavy muscles-, a body that was once full of life and is now nothing but the shell of a glooming emptiness. Your eyes are empty. They aren't the same glimmering gold the sun kissed every morning back in your homeland- they are almost greyish, the color of dark winter skies, yellow from the snow captured in the clouds. You look away.

 

* * *

 

  
_February_.  
You're not alone anymore- the building is filled with people now-, but you don't feel expecially relieved. You still feel just as lonely as you felt back in jail. You spend most of your time either in the central room on the still ripped sofa you found or in the small bed's room that you now made your bedroom. You had the chance to craft some traditional charms from your village- you made them identical to the ones that got burned back in your homeland and that stood proudly on your mother's night stand- to brighten the grey walls and rough shelves, and even if it's still depressing at least it reminds you of home and keeps your mind focused on what you came here for.

  
Tonight you feel nothing. It's your family's anniversary of death.

  
You don't want to do anything, just be alone and pray for a while, but it seems impossible with your new homies to have a second of peace. You're tired and your nerves are about to break down. You don't justify anything to the men in the building when you leave, you just step out and walk with your hands in your pockets to the only thing that apparently can make you feel better. You see it glimmering under the night sky, black and smooth- your motorcycle. You smirk as you rememer how much you spent on it.  
You start it and the engines's sounds make you feel alive again. You drive away at the speed of light, the streets around you ghost paths with not a soul in sight, only the stars shining and looking away from you as you look up at them silently asking for forgiveness for all the things you've done. The city lights look like nothing but blurred dots from where you are, and as you get closer to them shapes and colors you had never known existed start shining before your very own eyes. You are not too amazed- it's all digital posters and commercials filled with overpayed sponsors- but there's something mystical about the effect they have on people. Painfully obvious tourists here are all smiles and laughs as they take pictures of everything they see, like they're hypnotized by the flashing lights and lies the TV tells them. You ignore them, your eyes fixed on the road, a sense of freedom filling your lungs. Maybe this is your own special way of escaping. You accelerate, the asphalt under your eyes becoming nothing but a blurred sequence of black, and the lights around you are even brighter and colorful. It's as you blank out for a second that you ungracefully lose the sense of the road and you snap out of your mind the second you see someone seconds away from your motorcycle.

You turn around and stop just by him, looking at him as he loses balance and falls on his ass on the asphalt.

Your eyes meet for a brief second.

  
He looks a bit concerned- that's so human of him, it almost makes you laugh- and has wide eyes and pale skin. You try to identify the color of his eyes in your mind. They're golden- not like yours, his are of a darker shade, but somehow appear brighter than yours-, green- like the green needles of the pines you grew up under- and blue- blue like the deep wide ocean you glanced at from ontop of the mountains, with the same shades of grey and cyan. It's an apart universe from the world you live in, what you see in his eyes. It's a world only he can explore and only he knows. For a brief second, you wish you could live there, too. You click your tongue, start your motorcycle and nyoom away from him. Under the sound of the engines running, you hear him yelling something at you. You don't hear what exactly, but he's probably insulting you- not that you're suprised, you almost ran on him-, but your mind blanks out once more when you absorbe his voice. It's familiar. It has the same back feeling of gold and power. You briefly look back at him- a thin figure dressed, like the others, in colorful clothes with sky-dyed hair and what looks like a blue hairy ball in hand, his long legs moving in circles in frustration as he curses your name- and wonder just what this dude can have in common with the man who slaughtered your family and destroyed your home.

 

* * *

 

  
  
You look up at the smoke raising from your pipe and feel a contorted sense of comfort knowing one day this might as well kill you.  
You sigh silently, kneel down in front of the woodened statues you put on your nightstand and close your eyes. Your mind wasn't tricking you back there- that guy has something to do with Toue, you're sure of it. Memories from the last day with your family flood your eyes.  
You remember the people you loved stripped of their belongings and dressed like jailers, their hands bruised and cut and their faces worn out and thin. Toue was standing in his complete height- that's much less than yours, but with you completely harmless against him he felt like he was ten feet taller-, looking down at you and your family like you'd look down at autumn leaves destroyed by the wind. You remember his voice.  
Powerful, that's what it was. Powerful, it felt like pure gold. It was warm, not detatched like you'd expect it to be. His words were heavy and desrespectful, filled with distrust and hatred. You could never forget a voice like his.  
You're sure you heard it again today in the voice of that boy.

  
You glance towards the ceiling as if you're looking for some God to face you and promise yourself you'll find him. You'll find him again, you'll take his ass over here and do with him everything you'll need to until you'll find a way to Toue. He must be related to him in some ways, you know it.  
He might just be the missing piece in this wicked puzzle of revenge of yours.

 

* * *

 

  
  
You look down at the pair of eyes looking up at you.  
They're the wide eyes you glanced at back last week's Friday night and even now, after all that has happened- the jailers on your team bringing him at the abandoned building, the beginning of fights and distrusts, the help you gave him with his grandmother, and now him moping around you in the middle of the street-, make you wonder why they couldn't choose one single color instead of this patchwork of beautiful confusion. He looks at you and you see fear. You see it in the way he stands on his toes then swings back on his heels, the way he cracks his knuckles nervously, the way he keeps his lips slightly apart to breath. It doesn't bother you, not at all, it makes you feel powerful if anything. You were never able to control anything in your life- not the way your family died, not the way Toue got away with it-, so the thought of being able to control him, someone so important and crucial for the mission you have to fulfill, makes you feel powerful. This might be the most human you have ever felt.  
You remind him that you did not help him for pity's sake and that soon enough will come the time for him to pay you back. He looks at you and is confused, biting nervously on his lower lip. He asks you what you're going to make him do and you smirk because of course, he wouldn't know. You don't asnwer. You puff a last lungful of smoke and leave without a word.

 

* * *

 

 

You're used to this by now- the sound of police's sirens and people yelling at you to leave immediately the building you're in-, but you see that the people you're stuck with have no experience in this type of situation at all, so you do what you can to coordinate them despite the hot headed friend of the powerful voiced kid and his other innecessarily nervous masked companion. You have been running from the police all your life and this time it's no different, but you're trying not to lose sight of the blue-haired boy that's running along with you. You find shelter in the city center, you stop and catch your breath. You're so used to this you barely even gasp anymore, as for your companion he souds like he's just about to choke and you curse the Gods for having you stiking with such an idiotic, unexperienced brat.  
Moments later his Coil rings, he says something about an invitation, and just as he's finished you get one too. Coming from Toue, apparently, is an invitation to Platinum Jail, a building that's been inaugurated by not too long but is already getting on your nerves due to the continuous posters and ads for it everywhere. He does live there now, so this might be your lucky strike and you might just be able to get to him. The kid with you glances at you, you lost in your thoughts deep enough to don't notice, probably wondering what you're thinking about. But his concern has no answer and you simply start heading towards the building entrance, keeping silent the same way you used to do when you walked in circles inside your cell back in jail.

 

* * *

 

  
  
Your stay in Platinum Jail is an old-fashioned like building, with vintage furniture and woodened floors. You don't like it much, it looks too much like the living rooms of your southern homeland, but you can't complain when you think about the semi-decent mattress and warm shower that are waiting for you upstairs. You walk up to the second floor without a word and step into what's going to be the last bedroom you'll ever sleep in. It looks comfortable and has a nice window on the city center, a big bed, considered you'll sleep alone, and a nightstand. For just how much you'd like to lay down and have a nice sleep, you feel too tired to even go to bed, so retire in the bathroom with the intent of taking a shower. You step inside a white bathroom with ceramic furniture and a nice smell of soap in the air. It's a bit cold, and you usually wouldn't mind, but since after years for the first time you can affort the luxury of comfort, you turn on a small heater that's in the corner and wait for it to warm the room a bit.

While you wait, you start stripping.  
The first thing you take off is your coat. You were so tired of feeling that heaviness on your shoulders, the second you took it off you felt immediately relieved. Next you take off the cuffs, first the heaviest one from your neck, then the two from your wrists. You sigh in relief the very same second they hit the floor, and a small smile escapes from your lips: this is the first time since you went to jail that you don't feel that heaviness hanging on you. You could've been not wearing them anymore- you were not a jailer anymore, or better, you were, but didn't need to wear those now you weren't in your cell-, but they hold a meaning to you. They represent the people that you lost, the reasons you lost them and the reasons you won't give up on your mission to avenge them. But now, having them off your physical body does make you feel lighter, and for a brief moment you almost think of not wearing them again. You click your tongue and hit your own chest, a centered pain growing in your ribs. You can't believe you even _thought_ of something like that.

  
You step out of your jeans and undo the braids in your hair, take off your shirt, leave your gloves and the bracelets you were wearing arund your wrist and ankle- the only belongings of your family you were able to save from Toue's men- and walk into the shower. The second you open the vessel and warm water starts pouring down your skin you immediately feel your muscles soften and your bones absorbing the mild heat. Your whole body gets chills from the pleasing sensation, and you try recalling the last time you had a nice shower like this one. The smell of pines of the hotel's shampoo is delicate and flies you back to the pinewood behind your home back in your parent's land. You smile.

  
You step out of the shower a few minutes later, dry yourself with the hotel set of white towels and a low-power airdryer you found in a drawer, then step back into your jeans and shirt and head towards your bedroom. On your way there, you throw a distracted glance towards the body sleeping on the first floor's sofa. He's there, his head hanging, with that same blue ball of fur in his hands- you realized only much later after your first encounter it's actually an Allmate,- and his absurd clothes on. He looks peaceful.  
You click your tongue, head back to your bedroom and finish getting dressed. There's no time to waste sleeping, you remember it the moment you wear your cuffs back. You need to get to Toue, and you swear you heard in that blue-haired kid's Toue's voice.

But can you really trust yourself on this? You were never one to need proofs- you wouldn't believe in God if you did, or that is what you mother always said-, but this once you're walking on thin ice.

You heard him talk with the same captivating voice Toue used, and you know now with the help of your Allmate- who went around eavesdropping a bit of this kid's conversations with his grandmother, apparently once part of Toue's scientists Bureau- that there is a secondary conscience in him that can be dragged out when in need and who owns that special voice. You need to make something about this, to drag this him out of this more placid, mellow him. You look at yourself in the mirror hanging in front of your bed, and think of the ways you can do this. It would ache you in another moment- it probably still does-, but the emptiness in your heart is a black hole that's sucking on your feelings.  
You feel nothing.

 

  
You go downstairs, you wake him up with little to no care and he looks at you with a big question mark in his eyes. You simply tell him you're leaving, and he asks you where you're taking him. You do not answer.

 

* * *

 

  
  
It's been ages since the last time you walked into a club- not that you can recall the last time you did so, you probably ended up getting too high to remember anyways-, but you didn't remember it like this, so loud and crowded, and you didn't remember this smell of alcohol and weed. The kid next to you seems even more confused than you are.  
You lead the way up to the second floor and sit down on the purple sofas, patterns of colorful lights from the dancefloor flashing and filling the air with wild pinks and blues, and he sits nervously in front of you. You shortly explain the light drugs to him, that they're a new type and work like acids, and he does seem interested about it, but you keep it minimal, even if he'd probably want more informations, expecially about the reason you came here. You don't answer when he asks directly, and see him getting frustrated quickly; you keep your cool as he asks you what you're doing here, you reply with a small, provocative short answer and he gets even more upset. You look at him getting confused, his pupils widening and his balance failing him. You're sort of suprised this is the first time he's even done drugs- he's twenty three, he's supposed to have done most of the bullshit out there already-, but it's painfully obvious he never did. He stares into your eyes without saying a word.  
You stare back at him right back into the darkness of his pupils, emotionless. It's the first time someone holds up to your gaze, you're almost sure he's in a trance already from all of the lights and the music so loud. He suddenly snaps back to reality, looking terrified. He can barely stand up on his feet, but runs downstairs to the dancefloor, and you smirk. You weren't expecting such a reaction. You follow him down, by the time you find him he's completely stoned and you're annoyed out of your mind. This was the proof you needed, the one you were waiting for, the one that clears one doubt in your head.

This dude has nothing to do with Toue.

He's useless and has nothing special in him.

You were wrong.

  
You tell him to stand up on his feet, but he laughs. He keeps on laughing and you don't even understand why. You have never seen something like this before. You click your tongue and raise him up, but he's putting no effort in standing at all and leans over you, his forehead rested against your chest and his hands caressing your shoulders down to your hands. His bony fingers play with yours, much bigger and rougher, only for a few seconds before moving up slowly to your chest. You look down at him, his pupils so wide they're eating up the colors of his eyes, and he's glancing up at you with a devilish smile on his face. He bites down at his lip and laughs, walking in closer to you until your chests are touching, and closes his hands behind your neck, his hips slowly moving at the rythm of the music. The colors of the lights shining on his face make him look so young.

  
You don't remember his name, so you ask him. He laughs and lowers his face, the blue hair of his fringe tickling at your neck, and he looks back up after a moment. Aoba, he says. Aoba. A name sounding so soft and beautiful, no one could wear it as gracefully as him. You nod shortly. He lets out another small laugh, and looks at you in the eyes as his eyelids get heavier. He moves in closer with his face and taps on your mouth with his soft lips, not exactly kissing you, just brushing slightly against you, and you let him, his blue eyelashes resting on your cheekbones. He moves slowly and it's making your heart burn. He smiles, not opening his eyes, and moves his lips to your ear. He whispers with a voice as sweet as honey, and he whispers that he wants you. He wants all of you, wants you to destroy him at his core. He moves back and fixes his gaze on you once more, the tips of your noses touching. You feel his warm breath on your mouth, the smell of his hair filling your lungs and making you forget about the place you're in. There's thousands of other people in here, but there really ain't no one else for you. You should know better not to get involved in this type of situation. You cherish no feelings for this kid- no, for Aoba, his name is Aoba-, and there truly is no reason to go any further: he's high out of his mind and can barely stand on his own. But his voice is what keeps you hesitating. It's sweet, tastes like caramel under your tongue, not like his usual voice.

Is this his other him, the conciousnes separated from his main one that own the power Toue also had?

  
All you know, if you stop now, you'll never know. But you can't do anything more than this.  
You move your hands up to his wrists and move his arms back in place, explaining that nothing will happen at all and that is time for you two to go back to the hotel. Pure void fills his eyes, a sense of unexpected discomfort taking over you the moment you look at them. He asks you why, tilting his head slowly to a side, and you explain that it's not the case at all for more of this to happen. He softly frees from your hands's grip, moving his fingers down to the hem of your shirt and raising it up slowly. The feeling of his cold hands caressing your abdomen with the fixed look of his eyes on yours do have a certain effect on you. He touches you with a soft tenderness you never felt before, but there's a lust in his movements you wish you could be immune to. You wish you could stop this, but maybe deep in your heart you don't want to.

If you'd give him what he wants, would controlling him be easier? Would he let you take over him completely, the way you were meaning to do since the beginning? You have to push him further. If there is even a single chance for this to work, you must do it.

  
You take him by the hips and move in closer to him, brushing on his lips with yours. He asks you playfully wheter you're falling in love with him or not, his eyes always deep inside yours, and you reply with a smirk, answer that you can't promise him you won't after you're done with him. He smiles with an excited look and tilts his head to the side, his hair following his every movement, and whispers that he'll take the risk. You walk him into a small alleyway in the back of the club, the music echoing in your ears, and watch him slowly taking off his jacket and throwing it carelessly to the side. He laughs, and thank God he does, because if he didn't you'd feel even worse. He takes your hand and rests his cheek on it, his pale fingers showing so obviously on your dark skin. He smiles, and you feel his cheekbones raising under your palm. His lips move to the tip of your fingers, kissing each and every one of them with his eyes deep in yours.

You feel _fire_.

  
You move your palms down to his ass and raise him with his back against the wall, he's so light and you were expecting him to be; his small hands move down your back gracefully, raising your shirt with every distract movement. He's not complaining in the slightest as you have him slipping out of his jeans and your fingers loosen the hem of his underwear. You wish you could resist the temptation of his lips as he lets out the sweetest voice, and you're big and strong and old enough to resist anything else, but there's something captivating about him and you blame this all on the way the pronunces your name slowly as you close the distance between you. 

You have him hanging to you from your neck and the smile on his face makes you go numb.

  
You've lost.

 

* * *

 

  
  
And you've been warm for a second but you now feel much colder than before.  
You look down at your hands and revive for a second the feeling of pale skin under your fingers. You should feel dead, and you do. You thought you knew the feeling of being empty, but the life Aoba's mouth breathed into you made you even emptier. Now you've crossed the line between life and death and there's nothing left in you but _hate_.

  
He has the voice of Death, the same as Toue's.

  
This is what you needed to know.

  
No feelings involved.

  
The moment you tell yourself that, your heart stops beating and a sense of cold freezes your veins. You look at youself in the mirror, and _realize_ it.

Realize that _nothing_ can harm a dead man.

 

* * *

 

  
  
You're doing it again, but this time you feel nothing at all. There's blood on his lips and his eyes are glimmering from the tears, blue and purple bruises all over his body. His breath is raspy and you push him down to the floor with a strenght you barely knew you had, and even if it's unnecessary with such a weakling body you're not controlling your own power and it ends in blood the same way it always did. He's looking at you in the eyes and he looks just as young as he did back in the club, you read him like an open book from the fear in his pupils. He looks at you and wonders _why_.

  
_Why you're doing this to him_.

  
And you don't know either, you can't answer that, and you reply with a silence that works best than any other word.

He will keep on fighting until the last moment, you know it, and it's the type of nuisance you hoped you wouldn't need to face. You're destroying him piece by piece with every thrust and every hit and you can do nothing but look at him crumble to dust before your very eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

You watch him sleep and you wonder what he's dreaming of, if he's still able to dream of a future the way you don't do anymore. Pipe in hand, you smoke heavy with your aching heart barely beating in your chest. You look outside the window and see how the stars and Moon don't look at you the same you don't look at youself anymore. You almost smile remembering somewhere far across this blue dark horizon there's your homeland, a country of tall trees and white mountains, wide lakes and cold sun days. You think of the person you used to be when you lived there. Happier, healthier, calmer. You remember you used to sleep at night, sometimes you had dreams. Your mother used to laugh and your father smoked calmly his pipe, that's how days used to be.

_Before_ Toue came. _Before_ your house was destroyed. _Before_ you started killing. _Before_ _this_.  
You stand up feeling heavy and watch the thin body you've violated time after time sleeping right there in front of you. He's exhausted and his bones pop out gracefully of the white sheets you wrapped him in.

You look at his face.

  
You never payed much attention to the unimportant details of his before but his lips are drawn with a timid perfection and his eyelashes are beautifully tidy. The oval of his face is soft and his skin is so pale it looks as if moonlight found home in its pores.

  
You breath. You forgot to for a second.

  
You pass softly your fingers through his hair, realizing how silky and healthy they are. This color of blue is unbelievable. You follow with your fingertips the gradient of its shades from a wild blue of sunny skies to a pale aquamarine, and stop for a moment where his bangs touch his cheekbones. You don't say a word and don't need to, for the matter, but silently something grows inside you. You aknowdledge it, but don't suppress it. There isn't something else about you that isn't dead.

 

* * *

 

  
  
_You are alive_ , the sound of three words you forgot existed pronounced from your favourite pair of lips with that destructive, broken tone that echo in your head still when they're completely vanished from the cold air around you.  
You look at him, not knowing what to say.

You could tell him that no- you are not _alive_ , you're only an handful of dust, flesh and bones. You _exist_ , but you are _not_ alive. This is what you could tell him, but you don't.  
There's a firm emotion in his eyes, the way he looks at you. His grip on your arm is soft enough for you to get rid of it with a single gesture, but the meaning behind it and the desperation flooding your head have you so confused you can barely tell what'd be the right thing to do anymore. He's looking silently in your eyes and the wild colors in his irises are begging you to understand. That if you tried you could've been a part of the world they meant, a part of that abstract landscape of oceans and pines they kept closed deep behind heavy eyelids and that you refused to see until now. You could've been there, you could've seen _life_ beyond death and _love_ beyond hate if you didn't shut yourself off in the darkness of your head. His lips are firm and you are not able to speak any word and break the silence.

  
You know you're walking an alleyway to your death, a death you awaited and hoped for all this time. A death that will take you to your family again after you avenged them and Toue's blood will stain the white floors of his own building.

  
You can't say anything.  
You leave, and don't look back to watch that thin figure for the last time.  
You're not sure you could die if you did.

* * *

 

  
It's dark all around you and there's an inhuman weight pressing on you. You breath in dust.

  
You believed it would've been over by now, but it's not. Toue is dead and his whole city has crumbled to dust, but you didn't, you're still _alive_. _Alive_. This is what you never wanted- to be _alive_. The reason your brain refused to believe Aoba's word for it. You have been dead all along and you never knew what it could mean to be _alive_.

You grunt as you put all the strenght in your arms to raise a weight above you, but it doesn't seem to work at all. Your brain goes blank.  
Without a precise idea of what you're doing, you punch and kick the wall above you in a complete confusionary state. You press your palms against it but this is not something you can control. You are not in _power_ to. You rest your head back, the air around you suffocating you.

And you laugh.

  
Laugh for believing you would've been able to do this, to kill and die in peace. For believing your last thought wouldn't have been for Aoba's mouth and for the way you could've had him. For believing in all of your excuses of revenge. None of this has ever been true. You never wanted to live. You used to have it all- a family, a home, a job you loved- but you weren't happy, no. You always wanted more, a state of glory and power you can't reach now and couldn't reach back then either. A state of glory and power that never belonged to you in the first place. To feel alive was a wicked feeling you were never blessed with, there was never something more than desire to die. And it's only now that a building collapsed onto you and your hands are stained with one more's blood that you think this can't end like this. This is not how you're supposed to die.

  
_You are not supposed to die_.

  
There's not much room to move but you somehow manage to bring your hands to your neck and take off the heavy cuff around it. You hear it thumping down not far from you, followed by the two around your wrists. You breath. You're lighter.  
You put everything you've got in your arms and raise difficulty one by one the destroyed parts of walls and floors piled up above you. You kick, punch, destroy everything, until you make it to the top.

  
The first thing you see is a blue sky.  
It reflects on the smashed mirrors and windows and glasses around you, it reflects in your eyes. You recognize the color of Aoba's hair in it, and it makes you smile a bit. You're both living under the same sky.  
You're both _living_.

  
You wouldn't believe this if you weren't feeling it.

  
You're _alive_.

 

* * *

 

  
_August_.  
There's a smell of moutain air and pines around you, and you let a smile grow on your face when you see your new home in its integrity. You saw it since the very beginning, when there wasn't more than an empty opening in the middle of an evergreen forest and a pile of chopped wood bars, and is now a complete building, with its own wood porch and its roof covered in leaves. _You didn't die along with your family_ , and it's only by looking at your hands covered in dust, cuts and calluses that you realize it. You couldn't pay your sould as a price for their death, but your new home is your gift to their living souls. You breath.

  
The inside is cozy and it would normally be cold, but the fireplace you built in the middle of the living room burns the heat you need to make this more than just a building, that makes it a home. You sit down on your sofa, remembering for a brief second of the ripped, half destroyed one that was in the building you lived in back on the island. You cross your arms and take a deep breath.

  
There really isn't much you miss of your life before.  
You might be still alive in your body, but you _did_ die along with Toue, just not in the way you were expecting to.  
You died to revive again, and now you're _alive_.

  
And as a living being, you miss Aoba. You miss his hands and his eyes and his narrow hips and long eyelashes. You miss his voice not for its power but for the way it made you feel when he said your name. You remember the fire you felt when you had him the first time. It was not reasonable to feel so alive while killing someone- and you do not pretend not to know you did, you did kill him-, but you believe you don't think about it for the act itself but more for the way everything seemed to be okay, with his laughter and his cheeks red, his breath raspy in your ears. You miss him.  
You wish he was here.

 

* * *

 

  
  
_September_.  
You wake up with the soft touch of fingers on your cheekbones. You open your eyes slowly, it takes you a moment to focus them. You see the face you love more than anything you have ever loved in the world standing in front of you, his eyes smiling along with his lips and the cold fingertips of his hands framing your face. You don't need an explanation for this, just seeing how happy he looks and how genuinely he says your name is enough.  
You move in closer to him and shelter him inside your arms, his thin body fitting like a doll's under your hands, and open your neck for him to rest his forehead in the nape of your shoulder. The smell of his hair fills your lungs. He smells like the flowers of almond trees and autumns in the mountain.

The warmth of his cheeks on your skin remind you he's _alive_.

  
You caress his head, asking him if he remembers of when you first met. He nods, and a small laugh escapes his mouth. He looks up at you and you're lost in his eyes again. He sighs that he was worried he would've never understood you. His hands draw circles on your arms, and he tells you about the ways the tried getting to you but never succeded. You nod sadly, knowing he's speaking nothing but the thruth- you used to block each and every kindness from him. He blinks slowly, and looks back inside your eyes. His thin body rolls towards you, closing every space between your bodies. With him so close, you remember why you weren't able to die. You whisper in his ear that he saved you from death, and you feel him blushing. He looks at you, painfully understanding your words. He looks down, then raises his face again. With his hands open on your cheekbones, his lips that you learned to love so well press against yours, suprising you a bit. His kisses were never passionate, but they're tender and sweet like no others can be. You kiss him more, without any lust in your mind.

  
You close your blanket around him and squeeze him tightly. You kiss his forehead, and he laughs a bit.  
With him in your arms, you don't simply _exist_.

  
You're _alive_.


End file.
